Because I haven’t learned my lesson well enough, I started in on another 800-page book, Savage Beauty by Nancy Milford. It’s a biography of poet Edna St. Vincent Millay, who was a giant figure in the Jazz Age and is much less well known today. It’s well-written¹, but I think I’m going to have stop reading it. For one thing, it’s difficult to write about charismatic figures, because the flame that drew admirers like moths doesn’t come through on the page. I can’t figure out why all these men (and women) are circling Millay, desperately in love with her, while she doesn’t return their feelings and is always on to her next conquest.
And for another, I’m poetry-illiterate. I honestly don’t understand why Millay’s poetry is considered so noteworthy. This is not to say I think it’s not—I mean, I don’t know why. I read Millay’s poetry, as reprinted in this biography, and I don’t get it. I’m quite sure I can’t tell the difference between the greatest poet in the English language and the worst hack.
I’ve always been poetry-illiterate. I’ve never written poetry, I’ve never read poetry for fun, I’ve never taken taken poetry classes (which is hilarious, given the number of creative writing classes I’ve taken in my life). Periodically someone will shove a poem under my nose and say, “Read this.” Often I find the poem nice and sometimes even intriguing. But I am not stirred to seek out more. Which is odd, given that I love writing in all its many forms.
This is a confession of fear of poetry. You know: poetry is too hard to understand, let alone create, or it requires too great a purely artistic streak. And this is the hardest to actually say aloud, I harbor deep plebian suspicions that poetry is too rarefied and academic. It’s the ultimate expression of the doubts I got as I was growing up: Yes, dear, but writing isn’t a real career. I mean, writers are famous for starving, and poet just seems to scream “extremely starving artist.” Which is nonsense—there does not need to be a connection between “artistic discipline” and “money-making career,” though it’s always nice if there can be. The two concerns really are orthogonal.
I’ve often wondered my lack of poetry chops has affected my writing at all. That is, would I have a better, or at least more distinct, writing style were I a poet? Or if I allowed myself to think of myself as a poet?
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¹Well, except for one thing: the author refers to her subject at different times as “Edna,” “Vincent,” and “Millay,” and there appears to be no rhyme or reason as to which name she uses when. It’s very discombobulating.
1) Her friends and family called her “Vincent” (who knows why); I suppose you might refer to her that way when dealing with her personal life and as “Millay” when discussing her writing, but why “Edna”? Anyway, I haven’t read the book, so I’m just guessing.
2) Do you like any kind of poetry? Limericks, nursery rhymes, anything? If so, then you may just not have run across the right “serious” poet who would unlock that particular wing of the House of Lit for you; if not, well, you just don’t like poetry. Hey, I don’t like dance/ballet. We all have our blind spots.
I was visiting my 97 year old Scots grandmother in her very nice assistedliving apartment palace and we walked by the library. I had just finished SAVAGE BEAUTY and recommended it. “Oh, I saw her,” my grandmother said. “Nancy Milford?” I asked. “No, Millay,” she said. Unbelievable — sometime in the 20s, my grandmother went to a poetry reading in the big auditorium in Worcester MA. And my grandmother, who is impressed by nothing and no one got this rapturous tone in her voice when I asked how the reading was. “She was wonderful,” she told me. “And she had this bright red hair. She was JUST WONDERFUL.” And I got a sense of the charisma at that point — duende so imperishable it wafted past seven decades. Here’s a ? for your journal — in whose presence have you sensed that special immortal genius for personality?
Highly recommend Billy Collins (our Poet Laureate) for intro to poetry(www.billycollins.com). Hearing poetry read aloud adds an important dimension. Try his CD “The Best Cigarette”.
And “Good Poems” by Garrison – he reads a lot of them on The Writer’s Almanac.
I’m poetry-illiterate too. I don’t see the point; I get frustrated because I can’t understand it. I’d rather read a straightforward essay or memoir where things are spelled out.
I remember going through an Anne Sexton poem with a friend who was trying to help me appreciate it. I just felt like if I don’t even understand who she’s talking about or what happened, what’s the point? What can I get out of it? I couldn’t even understand what she got out of it.
Incidentally I have that book ready to be read – even if I don’t like poetry, it sounds like an interesting biography, and I liked Milford’s book about Zelda Fitzgerald. As to “why all these men (and women) are circling Millay, desperately in love with her, while she doesn’t return their feelings and is always on to her next conquest”, well, that kind of glamorous, unavailable person is very attractive to some of us. Maybe you either get it or you don’t.
Sally, what a great story!
I couldn’t think of any poetry I liked right off, but then I thought of one of the books I read to Sophia before bed: Polka Bats and Octopus Slacks by Calef Brown. There is some great stuff in there, like “Funky Snowman”:
Funky Snowman loves to dance
You’d think he wouldn’t have much chance
without two legs
or even pants.
Does that stop Funky Snowman?
No!!
Turn up the music with the disco beat,
when you’re in the groove, you don’t need feet.
Crowds come out and fill the street.
Kick it, Funky Snowman!!
Okay, it’s not deep. But I love it. I can just hear the rhythms of how you’re supposed to say it.
I started this book over the weekend and am really enjoying it. What an amazing person.
I forgot to add: clearly women like Edna St. Vincent Millay interest and fascinate me — why else pick up their bio when I know nothing else about them? 🙂
I totallly agree with your stand on poetry. I’ve never really seen the point of it either. Personally, I find it much easier to write a story, or a letter (or something) to get my feelings out. However, most poets seem to be very interesting people and I really immensely enjoyed a biographical book that I had to read on Millay for an English paper. (I didn’t enjoy writing the paper so much!) She was a very fascinating lady and this book written on her called, “What lips my Lips have Kissed” is very well written. I highly reccomend it, (sorry I can’t remeber the author!)
Lizzie writes, quoting our host, ‘As to “why all these men (and women) are circling Millay, desperately in love with her, while she doesn’t return their feelings and is always on to her next conquest”, well, that kind of glamorous, unavailable person is very attractive to some of us.’ Well put. Same applys to poetry, methinks. (Perhaps that was a comparison she was already making?)
As someone who does enjoy poetry but to whom appreciation didn’t come readily (and I still don’t like or “get” most anthologized poems and doubt I ever will and think “c’est la vie”), I often find the apparent impenatrableness of certain lines to be the most exciting parts of an otherwise evocative poem. I keep going back to them, thirsty. More often than not, given enough readings and time, much of that thirst is quenched. And we all know how good water tastes when you’re thirsty.
Some poetry sounds beautiful but I just don’t get it!